Category : Books-Fiction

Sub Category : Romance

Two statues with dancing limbs. Identical in vision, for their requited love is kindled in the fires of passion. The dance is eternal, and it is somber. They walk as shattered ghosts of the unkind words for sunken corpses beneath the mire. Each of them trembles in hands, offering their bodies to their sinister way of movement. Their teeth also ache, for the rawness in their defeat within their arms tells a sordid tale for the deafened world. They speak unto God for aid.
Their name is countered by the harshness and softness. His name is Roderick. Her name is Isabelle. A soldier and a maid. A knight and a damsel. But, a sorcerer and a witch. They are enamored at each other’s sight. Apart, they linger in emptiness. An emotion, which stirs through bitterness. An emotion, which empties a passageway. There is only infinity in numbness.
Together, they are whole. Roderick and Isabelle, mating through the most primal of ritual in dance that a human couple could dare encounter in such a lifestyle of affection. In contrast to an animal’s mating ritual which happens but once, Roderick and Isabelle’s “mating ritual” occurs on frequent. Yet, as it is somber, that moroseness quilt paces itself through their night, driving a rain into their bodies. One, which is rigid; the other, which is curved. Isabelle’s beauty is the symbol to which Roderick makes his name known. An Italian beauty. A fire to behold.
She stays mingling with the ghosts of an arid noon, inside a home where either s heart roars, or the April breeze gently stirs. Until the evening marks each tearful shadow, Isabelle remains being the dreamer to this fanciful abode. A terror in olive skin, when the tresses, which are of the deepest shade, collide neatly upon this texture to a pallor. Lingering tresses play with the neck of Isabelle. A laughter erupts in her eyes, for the neck seems to tickle her.
When evening dawns, the shadows surround, and make Isabelle the brownish phantom of mahogany. Furniture of such a darkened wood uplifts the fires to her beauty, as Roderick manages to catch the sparks between his fingers. As such, we reveal the nature of the sombrous dance.
Roderick says, “you were not beautiful before the dance.”
As she replies, “I became beautiful only through the dance.”
She unfurls a question to his ears. “What makes the dance beautiful?”
“It is because the dance is somber,” he replies.
“Why is the dance somber?” she asks, offering another question, in irritation.
That mode of irritation had not escaped Roderick’s observation. He caught it as an oven catches the small specks of food residue at the hottest spot, being the bottom. He tosses Isabelle gently aside. He answers her with an even gentler tone to his voice. “The dance is somber, because the dance is in the evening. It is the atmosphere that makes the dance somber.”
“Only I have ever called the dance somber. I always think you are lying,” says she.
“The dance is somber… because of the atmosphere. That is all!”
“No. The dance is somber, because the dance is silent,” Isabelle says.
She trots a graceful five meager steps to a stereo, whereupon a spot for a record lays above. To the reader’s horror, we must point out the Isabelle appears deathly afraid. A great torrent of sweat throws a gleam on her countenance. Anxiety has become the fuel for this idle hour.
To Roderick’s greater shame, he lashes out when he hears the saxophone of a randomly selected song by George Enescu. The haunting Romanian composer whose music assumes the darkest shade of black, not allowing any addition of white to seep into its chords and strings. Yet, not to the Enescu did Roderick lash out for, but the grief of hearing his beloved Isabelle, did his mind snap!
He shouts. He bellows. He raves. Above all, he is consumed by guilt. For the horror he has manifested in Isabelle’s pretty features, have washed every morsel of beauty back in the terror of revulsion. She recoils continuously. As though to flee the scene, she only says, “to hear is to be beside sight. There is silence in our sombrous dance, to which you’ve yet to pour your heart away from my voice. A voice which is only your comfort, as the world is alien to you. So sad!”
Roderick trembles deeply. A great, empty tremble, that stems from a disease known as idolatry, for the love of devotion. A pure love for devotion. A devotion given unto devotion.
There is no deeper stress.